


Typically to Express Affection

by alpheratz



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: 5 Things, Boundaries, Depression, M/M, Podfic Available, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:06:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpheratz/pseuds/alpheratz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five conversation Pete and Patrick had over the years. Written for the 2013 no_tags prompt "Pete/Patrick - size kink."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Typically to Express Affection

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://no-tags.dreamwidth.org/7055.html). Warning for references to a past suicide attempt and depression. Also, check out the podfic by girlpearl [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/649385)!
> 
> Thank you to jrho for the beta and inlovewithnight for cheerleading. <3

_One at the very beginning_

It's only their second unofficial songwriting session, but Pete is already in love, the kind of love that he's mostly only seen directed at fantasy heroes by nerds he knew in high school. 

It's a very platonic, courtly love. 

"Look, this isn't working," Patrick says and scowls at the mess of Pete's journal, pencil and pen scribbles enmeshed like an illegal cagematch in a filthy backroom. He's so fucking tiny, just a kid. More in the hobbit category of fantasy epic heroes. "This is never going to scan unless I do unspeakable things to the music and the English language."

Pete nods agreeably, letting his eyes slide over the curve of Patrick's frustrated mouth, casually, like it simply happens to be en route to wherever he actually means to look. 

So far Patrick has pasted together two sets of words like he was composing a blackmail note out of newsprint. Patrick looks at the sheet of working lyrics grimly and shifts on the bed, splaying his legs wider to let the guitar more comfortably settle on his thigh and between his legs. Pete can't take his eyes off Patrick's process. He tugs his beanie lower, flattening his bangs so they're in his eyes. He's a ninja of staring at geniuses. 

"Unless..." Patrick says, blowing his hair out of his face and playing through the chord progression. "Unless I just add a repetition here." 

He plays it and turns a rare shining smile at Pete. Pete covers his rising worshipful feelings with a smirk and thinks that he hasn't just found his golden ticket, he's discovered magic exists. His life's becoming a fantasy epic. It's going to end in a dragon incinerating him - quickly, if he's lucky - but the soundtrack will make angels dance. 

"Sing it?" he asks, slouching back into the pillow awkwardly wedged between his back and the poster of Prince over Patrick's bed. 

Patrick furrows his brow and belts out the frankensteined lyrics to the backbeat of the guitar and a melody he must be composing on the fly since it bears only a faint resemblance to what he and Pete came up with thirty minutes ago. 

Pete makes sure to close his mouth before Patrick looks over. 

"Well?" Patrick asks intently. Pete doesn't know Patrick all that well yet, but he already knows that when Patrick is like that, he's both convinced he came up with the best fucking track this side of the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame and needs convincing that this is in fact the case. So Pete tackles him, one hand spread on his chest and pushing, the other lifting the guitar out of the damage vector.

"Fuck-- _off_ ," Patrick growls, trying to stab Pete in the side with an elbow, but Pete wraps his arms around Patrick like an octopus. They fall over, legs on Patrick's pillow and heads halfway down to the floor, and Patrick stops struggling. Pete's hat falls off and he laughs, squeezing his arms around Patrick's middle, trapping Patrick's arms, and sticks his face in Patrick's Suave-smelling neck, not even a hint of aftershave on him. 

It's not like Pete's that big, but Patrick's smaller, or maybe he hasn't cultivated a resistance to Pete's clinging limbs yet. Whatever. "You're a genius," Pete firmly says into Patrick's ear. "We're playing this at practice." 

Patrick twists his head away. "Yeah, thanks, Pete, but-- oof." He rocks back and forth, trying to get his elbows out of the choke chain of Pete's arms. "Get off." 

Pete reluctantly lets go, and Patrick twists around, trying to get most of his body back onto the bed. Pete rolls onto his back and watches Patrick struggle, his head and upper back still hanging off the bed. His hair's touching the floor. He probably needs a haircut. 

Patrick glares at him from above. There's not a lot of heat in it, so Pete doesn't worry yet. "Are you just going to hang out down there, or are we writing?" 

Pete grins. "Play it again." 

Patrick rolls his eyes and picks up the guitar. "No more tackling. Or squeezing," he warns and launches into the song. 

Pete's neck's starting to hurt from holding his head up to watch Patrick play and sing, but there's no fucking way he's missing Patrick's mouth coax new meaning out of his words. 

 

_And one the following year_

Pete's staring at the back of Patrick's head. Patrick knows this just like he knows there's an empty can of Coke under his sneaker, just like he knows he's going to break a string on his guitar within the next two days, just like he knows they won't be able to get new strings until at least three days from now. 

Patrick knows that Pete is mostly staring to focus on not hurling from Joe's constant lane-switching, but that's not terribly comforting when there's, like, laser vision burrowing into the back of his skull. 

They're only a couple of shows into their first real tour, and Patrick's having trouble adjusting to having to see these dudes every waking moment. 

Playing music is awesome, and sometimes, in quiet hours backstage, he and Pete have these transcendent moments when Pete says something, and it exposes an empty slot in Patrick's head. Then the words slide in, and Patrick's more whole than he was before. He keeps trying to remember ever having a moment like that in school, but he's drawing a blank. 

So that part is magical. His proximity alarms constantly going off is not. 

He's already managed to pick three fights with Pete and one with Andy, and all of them were totally justified. If Pete can't respect his right to not have unwrapped chocolate bars hidden in his duffle, they're going to have to work it out with fists. There's just no other way. 

And now Pete's circling the crown of Patrick's head with his finger. 

"What?" Patrick hisses, slapping Pete's hand away and turning around. 

"The back of your head was thoughtful." Pete's looking back at Patrick with hooded eyes. He looks drowsy, the good kind of tired for two in the morning. His hand falls heavily on his knee.

"I'm always thoughtful, fucker," says Patrick, keeping his voice low so he doesn't wake up Andy or make Joe yell at them. 

Pete grins, a slow smile that glows in the back of his eyes. "Yeah you are, honey." 

Patrick rolls his eyes, and Pete grins even wider, patting the seat next to him. It's suspiciously clear of equipment, given that Patrick remembers telling Pete to shove over and make room for a bag of pedals. 

Patrick files that away as something that can be addressed later and looks down at Pete's hand. Okay, whatever. He crawls around, kicking the empty Coke can aside with a muffled clatter, skidding on empty bags of potato chips, and parks his ass next to Pete. He's so tired, and he's painfully glad that Pete is, too. He's not in the mood for tickling or noogies or any other more infringing ways Pete demonstrates his love.

Pete just props his chin on Patrick's shoulder. The hem of his hood brushes the side of Patrick's head, and it's... irritating, like there's a fly sitting there, but it also smells like Pete and laundry detergent because it's only a few days into tour, and that part is nice. 

Patrick turns his head, so he's looking into Pete's eyes. They're completely dark, none of the streetlights rushing past reflected in them because Patrick's keeping out all the light. Patrick can't see Pete's pupils widen to adjust to the darkness, and he's not sure if that means Pete can't see what Patrick's face looks like.

"You're a closed book." Pete's breath brushes Patrick's chin, and Patrick shivers, whether from that or from Pete's mindreading abilities. "Does anyone get to open you?" Pete says, his voice sleepy and dropping into his lowest register, just like Patrick's stomach drops to hear it. 

Pete moves closer, crowding Patrick in. He's not even that fucking big, but he's everywhere. "We talked about this," Patrick warns, pushing at Pete's shoulder. "Get off." 

"Just wanna cuddle," Pete protests, and yes, there they come, octopus limbs wrapping around Patrick's middle and dragging him close like he wants to absorb Patrick's lifeforce.

Patrick can't _breathe_ when Pete does that. He shoves Pete away. "Seriously, stop it. Normal hugging, not the boa constrictor act. We've been through this." 

Pete whines like a puppy, but loosens his grip on Patrick's ribcage, which is all Patrick ever wanted. "Better," he tells Pete. 

Pete buries his face in Patrick's shoulder, and Patrick lets Pete hold him, and after a while, he falls asleep, and everything goes back to normal. 

 

_One in 2004_

Pete is tired of schmoozing with execs, but he charms his way around the room diligently, fistbumps all who must be fistbumped, and, duties carried out, sets out on a quest to find his best friend.

He eventually finds Patrick wrapped around a martini in the corner seat of the darkest booth of the club. Patrick eyes him glumly and scoots over. 

"They're not serving beer," Patrick complains. "What kind of industry party is this?"

Pete sags into Patrick's side and sniffs his glass. "The kind of party where you gotta drink hard liquor, dude." 

"I do that every day anyway."

Pete's so fucking exhausted. "Put that down." 

"No octopus arms," Patrick warns. It's a familiar refrain that's not necessary anymore, but it still makes Pete's guts clench with a poisonous mixture of yearning and affection, wanting to make Patrick _his_. 

Pete takes Patrick's drink out of his hand and sets it on the table. "Prepare to be boarded."

"Gross," Patrick smirks, and Pete grins back sharply and gets up on his knees onto the bench, making Patrick tilt his chin up to look Pete in the eyes. It's weird that he has to do this now to see Patrick like he used to, but he kind of likes having to work for it.

"Pete," Patrick says in a warning voice. 

Pete grins wider and puts his hands onto Patrick's shoulders, pushing back until Patrick leans back against the curve of the bench, head tipped back and neck exposed and still so calm and together that Pete's itching to mess him up like a new possession, like a new laptop with no internet history. Not that Patrick needs more porn on him. His collection is way dirtier than Pete's. 

"Not squeezing," promises Pete and slots their knees together, half-sitting on Patrick's lap and keeping himself over Patrick. He pushes Patrick's shoulders back into the cushion and trails his hands up, tugging at Patrick's sideburns until Patrick whips his head sideways and bites at his hand. Pete laughs under his breath and drops his hands down to Patrick's neck, pinching the skin at his favorite spot, the one an inch above the curve of Patrick's left shoulder. 

"This is so not the hug I was expecting," Patrick tells him, his voice rolling under Pete's fingertips, but there's no bite to it. Patrick's being weirdly docile and still under him. His breathing's too even to be natural.

"You're no fun." Pete settles more firmly in Patrick's lap and holds him down, burying his face in Patrick's neck, which is smooth everywhere because Patrick can be a fucking professional and shaves right before industry parties, breathes on the spot he just pinched. 

"Okay," says Patrick and dumps Pete out of his lap, sending him sprawling on his ass onto the booth bench.

Pete shakes it off and goes back in, pressing up to Patrick's side and twining their fingers together. They're warm, and Patrick is huffy, and that's all normal except that it's _not_. 

Patrick derails the niggling thread of thought that's weaving in Pete's mind by pushing Pete against the back of the booth. "Stop," he hisses. 

Pete swallows, shocked. Patrick's face is right next to his, and Patrick's hands are big on his shoulders. He's pinned, and that's unexpected. "Sorry, Trick." 

"You're not."

Pete breathes in, and his body expands into the grip of Patrick's fingers, the weight of Patrick's knee on his thigh. He goes limp, letting Patrick push him and grab him, and _fuck_ , it's like any other fight they've had, but it feels nothing like it. What was he thinking trying to make himself feel bigger, anyway? He's got nothing on Patrick. Patrick has him pinned. 

Pete licks his lips and stares at the blankness veiling everything in Patrick's face, trying to catch the thoughts behind it. "Patrick. What are you doing?"

Patrick sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and releases it. His mouth is shining in the faint club lights. Then he seems to make a decision and pulls back, shifting his weight off Pete. "Just... you're too fucking rough, Wentz. You're like a toddler with a cat."

Pete's blood is thumping in his ears. He shakes his head to clear it, and he's about to call Patrick on his shit, but then Gabe Saporta slides into the booth next to him, the only man brave or stupid or smart enough to barge into the middle of this. Pete gets distracted, and then he forgets, and when he remembers, he pushes it into the back of his mind. 

 

_One in 2005_

Patrick parks crookedly two feet away from the curb. If anyone cares, they can suck his dick. His suitcase is still in the trunk of his car, and he hasn't washed since the day before they flew out from Heathrow, but at least he kept late hours in the UK. That means he's got a few hours still until jetlag hits. For now, he's running on advil and anxiety. Whatever. It works.

He slams the car door and runs up to Pete's parents' house. He's always liked it there, but now seeing it hurts. 

He looks up and freezes, arrested by the sight of Pete's bedroom window, curtains drawn and no light on inside.

Pete's mom opens the door before Patrick manages to lower his eyes. She looks tired. "Hello, Patrick."

"Hi, Mrs. Wentz." Patrick tugs his hat lower onto his forehead. "Is it still okay to see Pete?" He'd called, but with Pete even at a hundred percent, things change by the minute. 

"He's in his room." Pete's mom stands aside and lets him in. "I'm glad to see you again."

Patrick ducks his head. "Sorry." 

Mrs. Wentz smiles like she knows what Patrick is apologizing for, even when Patrick himself isn't sure. "You want something to drink?"

Patrick would really, really love some vodka right now. "No thanks. How's he, uh. He didn't say much on the phone." 

Mrs. Wentz shrugs. "He's better. Not good." She says it lightly like it doesn't hurt her at all. She must be exhausted. "He'll be glad to see you. You'll surprise him." 

"I'll just say hi," Patrick promises, even though she didn't ask him to clear out quickly. 

"Stay as long as you like. You can stay for dinner, even."

Patrick nods and heads upstairs, past the familiar art and photos on the walls, past the picture of Pete with no tattoos and a soccer ball under his foot, past the doorframe with a decade and change of Pete's height marks on it that Pete always scowled at when they used to make their way up to Pete's room together. He rounds the corner and comes to the cracked-open door. There's quiet breathing inside, and to Patrick, it's like blinding sunlight after weeks of twilight. 

He eases the door open. Pete's room is neat, and that's a physical pain right there. Pete isn't neat. He leaves everything and everyone he touches on the ground in his wake, objects trembling with the memory of his attention. No paper on the desk means he's not writing; the basses on the rack mean he's not playing; no clothes on the floor means his mother's tidying after him. 

The breathing is coming from Pete's little twin bed, from under a mountainous blue comforter that Patrick vaguely remembers from the queen bed in the guest room. Patrick walks over quietly. At least there's nothing on the floor to trip over. 

Pete's hair is sticking out from his nest, and the comforter is radiating heat. Pete must be sweating balls under it. Patrick gingerly sits down on the edge of the bed and lowers his hand onto the blanket, not pressing, just letting it hover there.

"'m not asleep," Pete mumbles.

Patrick stomach gives a kick. "Hey."

The comforter moves like an earthquake. Pete fights his way out to the surface, emerging into the dim light but squinting as though it's noon and the curtains are pulled back. 

"How long have you been sleeping, dude?"

Pete yawns. "Most of the day."

"Your mom doesn't make you get up?" 

"I go to therapy in the morning," Pete snaps. "Sometimes I set the table for dinner. That good?"

"Just fine." Patrick doesn't really want to talk about it. Pete resents it when people tread carefully anyway. 

Pete sinks back down into the bed, but his eyes are still trained on Patrick. "You smell. You didn't go home?"

Busted. Patrick keeps his shoulders very still. 

Pete smirks. "Aw, Pattycakes."

"Shut up," Patrick grumbles and lets Pete wrap his arms around his knees. "Are you still thinking about doing something stupid?" 

"I hate that fucking question. You can run through answers to that on your own. I don't do performance art on demand."

"That's a total lie." 

"Yeah." Pete rubs his face. "I'm pretty sure I'm over it. That one's the truth." 

Patrick takes Pete's hand and moves it aside, studying Pete's face. Pete looks back at him somberly. His eyes are tired, but his mouth is relaxed. His hand is hot. Patrick was right about the comforter being too warm. 

"Lie down with me," Pete asks.

Patrick doesn't want look away from the movement of Pete's mouth, to his horror, so he forces himself to look down at his feet and kicks off his sneakers. He can practically feel Pete's satisfaction at getting his own way. Pete's will creates its own field of distortion, one that drags Patrick's legs onto the bed and his shoulders up to Pete's shoulders, his arms around Pete's waist. 

Patrick's ass is hanging off the bed because Pete may be tiny, but he takes up more than his share of space, and it's way too fucking warm, clinging to each other in the folds of the blanket. But Pete smells nice, and Patrick's jetlag is hitting him everywhere at once. So much for a few hours of reprieve. He's going to fall asleep in this tiny twin bed, pressed too close to his best friend.

Pete smirks into Patrick's neck; Patrick can't see it, but he feels it. Then Pete's mouth softens, and he presses a warm wet kiss to Patrick's neck, at the exact spot that's so used to Pete's kisses that Patrick has to deploy stealth breathing exercises to not whimper and melt right there. Fucking Pete. 

Pete's arms wind around Patrick's shoulders, holding gently but not squeezing. Patrick's training paid off. His boundaries are a fortress that Pete knows better than to besiege; Patrick would punch the air if he could. He definitely wants to punch something. 

"I hated it," he confesses. 

Pete breathes into Patrick's neck. "Being the funnyman?" 

"Uh-huh." Patrick digs his knuckles into Pete's back. "It sucked. You gotta get better before the next tour." 

"Doing my best, man." Pete sighs and rolls onto his back, pulling Patrick over him. "Be my blanket."

Patrick lets Pete arrange him how Pete likes. His limbs are used to following Pete's direction no matter how hard he fights it, and they end up pressed chest to chest, hips to hips, feet tangled up, and the comforter half on top of them, Pete's hand under Patrick's hat, holding him close. Pete's not much smaller than him, but Patrick's covering him completely. He can feel Pete breathe under him, the rise and fall of Pete's chest under his own.

"You should stay for dinner," Pete rumbles into Patrick's ear. "Check out my awesome new table manners." 

"Your table manners are restricted to not drinking your own pee while everyone's eating," Patrick points out and digs his fingers into Pete's sides.

Pete brushes his hands lightly down Patrick's back. "I bring my A-game to my mom's house."

"What a relief." 

Pete smirks again. "You're staying," he proclaims.

Yeah, Patrick is. He can't help it. 

 

_One more in 2005_

Pete surfaces around the tenth buzz of his phone. Judging by the cramp in his back, he's been out of it for a while. 

And come to think of it, that was hammering downstairs. Angry hammering. That can only mean one thing. 

"You've never locked the front door in your life," says Patrick when Pete finally lets him in. "Why now?"

"My parents went grocery shopping." Pete leans against the door and watches Patrick shiver and shrug his hoodie on. His parents keep the house cold. "Guess they locked it."

Patrick scowls. "Time to move out."

Pete feels his amusement dissolve into something warmer. If Patrick is joking about that, that probably means Pete's more okay than he thinks. Points for him, then. 

"Want to go upstairs?" asks Pete, wagging his eyebrows. "We can close the door."

Patrick rolls his eyes and goes in the direction of the stairs without waiting to see if Pete's following. Pete smiles to himself and gets two cokes out of the fridge before following him upstairs. 

Patrick is standing in the middle of Pete's bedroom, exactly where Pete had been sitting. He's looking around with an incredulous expression that would be hilarious if Pete's stomach weren't busy doing a somersault. He'd forgotten the lyrics. 

"This is a lot of paper, man."

Pete shrugs and kicks a balled-up t-shirt in the direction of the closet. "We always need lyrics."

Patrick picks up a piece of paper and reads it, squinting so hard to decipher Pete's handwriting that Pete knows he's exaggerating just to be a shit. "Oh god."

Pete bites his lip and sits on his bed, trying not to fiddle his hands or do anything else that'll give anything away, but he's always been crap at that, so it obviously doesn't work. Patrick lowers his arm and studies Pete quietly. "You have a laptop. So why the tree murder?"

Pete's stomach lurches like it does whenever he thinks of the laptop. He hasn't even taken it out of his tour bag. 

Patrick gets right up close to Pete, his shadow falling over Pete's face, and Pete leans back against the wall and lets himself feel small. It's a kind of comfort. Patrick cut to the chase, so Pete does, too. The one thing that has going for it is ending things quickly, the quick slide of a guillotine blade and relief compared to the drawn out anxiety theater that's most of Pete's life.

"I would've just emailed all of it to him."

Patrick holds himself still and unreadable, a fact that is somewhat interesting. Pete files it away. For now, though, he just sits and waits for Patrick to read his eyes and drop the topic, or hold Pete. Something. And when did that happen, wanting Patrick to cover him and hold him until Pete was calm and still instead of wanting to squeeze Patrick until they were one person? It's another troubling thought. 

Patrick twists his lips and sits down on the bed next to Pete. "You're the one who broke up with him."

Pete falls into Patrick's side, breathing in the smell of freshly laundered fabric, Patrick's deodorant ,and shampoo. Patrick smells different off-tour. Pete's not sure which he likes more, but he does miss the smell of Patrick's sweat. "We weren't together." 

"If you say so."

"I say so," Pete says, trying to keep uncertainty out of his voice. It's at best half-true, but it's not a lie. He's not even sure what Mikey thought about them. 

Patrick hums quietly and moves around, so he can wrap his arms around Pete, laughing under his breath when Pete makes an involuntary noise of satisfaction into Patrick's neck. "So we get breakup lyrics without a breakup? Best of both worlds."

"You're a fucking dick." 

"You love it." 

Pete doesn't exactly love it, but he's not sure if he can live without it. Patrick's a pillar in his framework of people who call him on his shit. Pete relies on that because it's not like he can do it for himself.

Patrick ruffles Pete's hair. His hand feels big on the back of Pete's head, fingers spread wide and all-encompassing and knowing, sorting out the tangled threads of Pete's mind through touch, arranging them by subject and color so that when Pete needs them later, he'll know where to look. 

"I think my heart's cracked," Pete confesses into Patrick's skin. "Get me glue."

Patrick stills weirdly again, his fingers freezing in Pete's hair like there's a glitch in the system, then lets out an uneven sigh and lets his fingers run through Pete's hair again. 

Pete blinks. "What was that?"

Patrick huffs irritably and pulls away, but Pete's not having it anymore. There's been something about Patrick all along that Pete's missed. 

"Tell me," Pete insists, but Patrick's face goes stony. 

"I gotta go."

"You just got here."

"Just to check that you were still alive." Patrick's face twists as he thinks about what he just said, but Pete doesn't give a shit. 

"You..." The idea is preposterous, but it's the only one Pete's got. He twists his hand in the back of Patrick's t-shirt, so Patrick can't get away, but he misjudges the angle, and Patrick breaks his grip easily. 

"Give me your break-up lyrics, Pete. I have to leave."

Pete stays where he is while Patrick gathers up the lyrics from the floor. "Okay. Songs about how much you miss Mikey Way, coming right up."

"Patrick..." 

"I gotta go," Patrick repeats and leaves, and Pete can hear him slam the car door all the way from upstairs.

 

_And one in 2006_

Patrick manages a stay of execution for several months, well into winter, which is a formidable achievement considering that Pete suddenly wants to hang out about twice as often as before. Patrick hides behind Pete's words and his guitars and throws Pete's break-up lyrics in Pete's face, a distraction tactic that he thinks works until they go on tour. 

Pete strikes, there's no other word for it. It's a fucking war, and Pete’s armed with clinging hands and a hot open mouth trailing along Patrick’s shoulder blade when Patrick’s trying to make his breath last until the end of the phrase, armored in skimpy tank tops, new tattoos, and more eyeliner than before.

Every battle ends in a tactical retreat. Patrick takes it for as long as he can stand it, but when Pete shows up in his bed at three in the morning smelling faintly of soap and even more faintly of whiskey sours when he’s supposed to be on an entirely different bus, he decides that he’s had enough.

He shoves Pete out of his bed and swings his feet to the ground, running a hand through his hair and pulling his t-shirt down to get rid of the sensation of Pete’s fingers crawling up his sides, feeling heat in his cheeks. "The fuck are you doing here?"

Pete looks annoyingly non-pissed off at Patrick’s unceremonious dumping of him on the floor. "Just wanted to hang."

Patrick sighs and gives up. "You couldn’t sleep?" Patrick tries really, really hard not to accept it as a valid excuse, but he can't, even after all these years.

The corners of Pete’s lips lift in a small smile while his eyes stay serious. He totally knows what Patrick's thinking. "That's not it."

"Then…" Patrick rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. "What are you _doing_?"

"Convincing you."

"What?"

Pete braces an arm on the floor, gets his legs under him, and pushes up on his knees. Patrick’s mouth goes dry looking at the flexing of Pete’s bicep in the dim light and drier when Pete shuffles up to him, placing his hands on Patrick’s knees, hot through the flannel of his pajamas. Pete looks up at him silently and nudges his knees apart, insinuates himself between them while Patrick’s heart knocks in his chest, begging to be let out. 

Pete ducks his head and looks up at Patrick through his bangs, a move straight from his playbook, but his eyes are ringed in only washed-off remnants of eyeliner, and his hair is wavy and stringy from its apparent encounter with soap and water. Patrick's stomach kicks. He doesn't know what Pete sees in his face, but he must find it because Pete lowers his eyes again and lowers his head to Patrick's thigh, touching his forehead to Patrick's clenched hand. 

"Pete." Pete's forehead is warm, and Patrick wants to run his fingers through Pete's hair, trace his eyes and his cheekbones, so when Pete raises his head with a question in his eyes, Patrick does. 

Pete sighs and sags backwards, arms dropping at his sides and hands brushing the floor, face upturned to catch Patrick's caresses, his stomach trembling with the effort. He looks so small folded in half on the floor between Pete's legs, and it makes Patrick feel big, powerful. He's also fucking confused and pissed off and kind of wants to slap Pete up, down, and sideways until Pete quits his mysterious maneuvers and says what he wants, but he settles for asking. 

"Really, Pete. What the fuck do you want to happen here?"

In retrospect, asking Pete questions was really dumb. Patrick curses himself and all the forgotten lessons of dealing with Pete when Pete opens his mouth, and his breath brushes the tips of Patrick's fingers. Patrick snatches his hand away.

Pete's eyes glint with a dangerous mix of desire and humor. "I think I'm saying it. Take me, I'm yours." 

"Jesus," says Patrick, rolling his eyes and ignoring the way his dick jumps pathetically under the worn fabric of his pants. 

Pete leans back farther, head tipped back with his throat taut like a bowstring in demonstration, and, two seconds later, when Patrick's still frozen in indecision, surges up and drags Patrick down to his mouth with his hands fisted in Patrick's t-shirt. 

"That's exactly it," Pete mutters between kisses that Patrick can barely keep up with but can't not return. "Yeah, like that, I knew I was right, kiss me, I knew you wanted it. How long have you wanted it, you goddamn liar?"

Patrick's back aches from bending over, and his head hurts from ignoring the questions, so he fists his hands in Pete's hair and pulls him up, rough so Pete cries out, bites Pete's bottom lip until he tastes blood. 

"So fucking rude," Pete moans in a low broken voice shot through with satisfaction. "You kiss all your girlfriends like that?"

"Shut the fuck up," Patrick tells him and drags Pete up to the bed, rolling them over and grinding his cock into Pete's hip. 

"Fucking god," Pete mutters. His face slowly flushes dark red, and his pupils dilate so wide it makes Patrick's stomach flip to look him in the eyes. 

"None of my girlfriends are annoying," Patrick says shakily. 

"Yeah, talk to me dirty, baby," Pete laughs and breaks off on a choking sob when Patrick puts his hand down hard on his dick and pushes his tongue into Pete's mouth. 

"God, do me, fuck me," Pete's moans pick up again when Patrick breaks off to breathe. "Cover me, fuck. Fuck, you're perfect."

Patrick feels like he's melting, not a warm tender first kiss sensation but melting like fucking iron in a furnace with Pete under him struggling and arching into Patrick only for Patrick push him back down. It feels dark and satisfying, and Patrick pulls the neck of Pete's tank top down to scrape his teeth against the thorn collar. 

Pete sighs and bucks under Patrick's mouth, writhing his hips and rubbing his dick wetly on Patrick's belly where his t-shirt rode up, clenching his hands in Patrick's hair. "You're so damn big. Push me down."

Patrick's half irritated because yeah, fine, he's not as svelte as he used to be, but he also sort of gets what Pete means, deep down in his gut, how satisfying it is to keep Pete pinned. So Pete gets a pass, fine. 

He shakes Pete's hands out of his hair and slams them down onto the mattress, grabs Pete's ass. Pete whines and kisses him and rolls his hips into Patrick's until Patrick is shuddering with heat building up in his belly, until Pete is shaking under him, and his kisses lose focus, just a wet mouth clinging to Patrick's cheek, until they both fucking lose it and collapse limply in the sheets, still dressed and completely wrecked. 

Pete only lets Patrick have a precious two minutes of afterglow before he starts talking. "See, I totally knew you were lying. It's useless to hide that shit from me."

Patrick groans. His muscles hurt, and he's not sure he has another pair of pajama pants. "I wasn't lying, and it took you two years to figure anything out."

Pete shifts a little under Patrick and gives up, sagging into the mattress with a relaxed sigh. His hands creep up to Patrick's sides, petting and squeezing. "Fucking perfect."

Patrick thinks about whether or not he minds, leaning somewhere between no and acknowledging that there's no point in over-analysis with Pete. Pete will do what he wants to do, and over time Patrick will want it too, barely minding it at all, and that's all there is to it.

"Your whole body is thoughtful, now," Pete murmurs. His fingers continue to travel softly up and down Patrick's skin.

"Someone has to think around here." 

"So what did you think up?" Pete asks placidly. 

"I think I still have no idea what the fuck is going on in your head."

Pete laughs, and Patrick sighs. "I'm serious. Is this just a hookup or what?"

Pete turns his face into Patrick's cheek and smiles. "We've been hooked up for years, dude."

"That is not your best play on words."

"I'm already hooked on you?" Pete tries. "You hooked me when you were still jailbait? You--"

Patrick props himself up on his elbow and covers Pete's mouth with his hand. "Shut up."

Pete licks Patrick's hand, but his gross-out maneuvers haven't worked on Patrick in years, and he keeps his hand clamped firmly over Pete's mouth. Pete relaxes, his eyes smiling over Patrick's fingers, and winds his arms around Patrick's shoulders. 

"Can I?" he asks, muffled, into Patrick's hand. 

What the hell. Patrick nods. Pete squeezes him, eyes sliding shut, and Patrick lets him. He even takes his hand off Pete's face.

"It's different," Pete mumbles. "I like it."

Patrick lets Pete keep squeezing and lets himself relax into it, push into the rise and fall of Pete's chest. "Well then. As long as you like it."

Pete spreads his legs and hooks them over Patrick's. Patrick's dick is beginning to show an interest in the proceedings, but for now, he's okay with just letting Pete cling.


End file.
